


Uncaffeinated Decisions

by whiskeyandspite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Worship, Cuddles, Established Relationship, Fluff, Insecurities, M/M, Mornings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 10:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19665682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: “Please don’t decide things before we’ve had coffee,” Crowley muttered, slouching as he made his way nearer. Aziraphale hardly had a moment to wrap his arms protectively over his soft middle before Crowley’s arms slunk around it as well, from behind.Aziraphale is having a bit of a pensive morning. Crowley reminds him not to overthink.





	Uncaffeinated Decisions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WarpedChyld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarpedChyld/gifts).



> My first ever Good Omens fic, aaahhh! Be kind, but all corrections welcome.
> 
> This is a commission for my INEFFABLE [WARPEDCHYLD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WarpedChyld/pseuds/WarpedChyld) who has quite a way with words herself. I hope you like it my love, and GOOD MORNING!

“Oh dear,”

It was too early, and too warm.

Aziraphale had left his demon under the covers, gently drawing fingers through his hair when he’d growled softly, unhappy to have his source of warmth removed. He really was reptilian when he let his guard down, was Crowley; seeking warmth, clinging, hissing hints of his sense of humor through thin lips. Aziraphale could watch his hands for hours, too; fiddling with a pencil, twisting a candy wrapper, thumbing dust from a house plant… nails like onyx scales, the only sign of his true nature when he hid his golden eyes.

He was beautiful.

Unlike, in Aziraphale’s eyes, the form that stood before the mirror now.

He’d decided several centuries ago that it was hardly worth shucking a mortal form when it went out of style. He’d grown used to it, after all, this comfortable form that smiled too quickly and filled out a wingback chair. He rather liked the way his clothes folded over it like an embrace, how his hair - this he did adjust by era - framed its round features.

But of late, he had found himself looking upon it with a frown, hands hovering over the soft middle, deliberately adjusting his sartorial choices to heavier fabrics, baggier cuts, more layers… he couldn’t even place where the anxiety had come from; for six thousand years he hadn’t wanted to change his form, and yet -

Perhaps it was his proximity to Crowley, more in the last few months, since the world _hadn’t_ ended, that triggered it. Seeing his demon slinking by in clothes that looked like they’d been painted on, body-confident, saunter doing wonders for the form it carried.

“Dear, dear,” Aziraphale sighed, feeling his brows draw together, his bottom lip push up against the top. Perhaps it was time for a change.

Their bodies - his own and Crowley’s - didn’t follow the laws of Earth as mortal forms did. They couldn’t age, they couldn’t die, they couldn’t suffer hunger or sleeplessness or ache. They could be harmed, but they could heal. They could be destroyed but - 

That was far from preferable.

So, frankly put, Aziraphale would not simply be able to starve his form into shape as humans did. He would have to entirely remove himself from it, recycle it into the ether, and build another from the pieces available. It would take time, effort, possible miracles he would have to conjure beforehand in order for them to work - since he wouldn’t be able to perform them formless…

Perhaps. 

Perhaps it would be worth it, for a lifetime of contentment. He was no longer just carrying the form for himself, after all. He had another, now, who he wanted to share space with, time with, tastes and books and history with. Surely Crowley would forgive him the brief days of his absence that were but a blink of an eye for the two of them. Surely he would appreciate this simple but tedious exchange of corporeal form in the long run.

In the mirror, Aziraphale watched his hands settle over his soft stomach, pressing against it, feeling the skin and fat and muscle shift, reform into the curve of his belly once more. He pressed again. Again. He turned sideways, sucking in a breath, tensing his muscles to appear slimmer, more elegant, more appealing.

It was possible, of course.

He sighed, watching himself return back to his familiar softness.

He would be as Crowley, he decided. Slim and statuesque. Handsome. It was often his demon reminded him of how in his true heavenly form Aziraphale was imposing; now he would be in his Earth form as well.

“Decided, then,” the angel said, patting his stomach gently, a fond farewell.

“Decided what?”

Crowley hung out of the doorway to the bedroom, fingertips suspending him from the jamb. His shorts soft and wrinkled against his thighs, one sock clung to his shin as the other folded warm against his ankle. He pressed a knuckle against one eye as he yawned and Aziraphale felt his breath catch.

Oh, he was lovely.

“Please don’t decide things before we’ve had coffee,” Crowley muttered, slouching as he made his way nearer. Aziraphale hardly had a moment to wrap his arms protectively over his soft middle before Crowley’s arms slunk around it as well, from behind.

A sharp chin settled to his shoulder and Crowley sighed long and low, a sound carried on the breath. “You’re not the angel of the bloody dawn, you know, you needn’t always get up so bloody early.” he mumbled, nuzzling his cheek.

“Old habits,” Aziraphale told him, turning his face just a little, just enough to feel those familiar sharp features. He melted back against him, Crowley still warm from bed, warmer than Aziraphale who had been standing shirtless before a mirror for… he wasn’t even sure.

“You needn’t get up on my account,” he added.

“Of course I do, if you’re making uncaffeinated decisions.” Crowley told him, pulling back just far enough to turn his face into his angel’s hair, next. “What are we deciding, anyway?”

“Well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, tried to straighten his shoulders, despite the pleasant warmth and weight against them. He glanced sideways again, considering the form he wore and the form pressed against him in the mirror. “I’ve decided it’s time for a change.”

“A change?”

“It’s important to stay _en vogue_.”

Crowley hummed, frowning, and drew a hand through Aziraphale’s hair, stroking it from his face.

“Well you’re no Justin Beiber but I’d say that’s a blessing, honestly.”

“No, my intelligence isn’t wanting. My consciousness needn’t a changeup. I was more thinking along the lines of… more height less… mass.”

Silence, then. No smart remark, no clever comeback. In fact, Crowley stilled so entirely behind him that Aziraphale had to wonder if he was still breathing - though this, too, was unnecessary for them. He swallowed.

“Crowley?”

“Why?” the voice was careful, like thin, delicate ice. Aziraphale swallowed again.

“There’s long been a trend towards a more… svelte… form. Historically, of course -”

“No,”

“Beg pardon?”

“Why,” Crowley repeated, setting his hands to Aziraphale’s shoulders as he circled him until they were face to face. “Would you _possibly_ consider such a thing?”

“Umm.”

The angel watched yellow eyes flick between his own, pursed his lips. He could tell him, of course, could put before Crowley his entire thought process when he had stood before the mirror. He could explain to Crowley why it was important to him to look handsome. _For him_. He could -

“Do you not comprehend, with that extraordinary brain of yours, that I _love you._ ” he said.

Aziraphale blinked.

“Has it ever occurred to you, angel, that I happen to be quite fond of every aspect of you? Including this absolutely _fetching_ form you’ve inhabited for six thousand years?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale managed. Crowley’s brows arched.

“Oh,” he agreed, a corner of his mouth twitching in the beginning of a smile. “Oh yes. In fact, I woke up this morning, far too early, might I add, quite missing it.”

Aziraphale exhaled, feeling the familiar warmth against his cheeks when Crowley considered him quite so closely, complimented him quite so obviously. He thinned his lips, relaxed them, obediently watched the darling thing before him before acquiescing to their now-familiar game.

“What did you miss?” he asked. Crowley grinned.

He let his hands skim down Aziraphale’s arms until he was holding his wrists. Eyes on his angel, Crowley ducked his head to kiss the center of each palm, a delicate, loving thing.

“These,” he started, before stepping nearer to run his fingers next through sleep-bent curls. “Burying my nose right here,” he continued, nuzzling Aziraphale’s temple and breathing him in. Aziraphale sighed, eyes closing as he allowed the tenderness. He turned his head against the lips that pressed to his skin after and smiled.

“I suppose I can understand that.”

“I missed the way you twitch when -” Crowley bent at the hips, running his lips ticklish behind Aziraphale’s ear until he did, indeed, twitch and squirm. “- I get to wake you up. Which I didn’t this morning, need I remind you.”

“My apologies,”

“I’ll consider,” Crowley grinned, letting his lips continue their pilgrimage over his angel’s skin. How, _how_ could this powerful, this brave, this radiant being not understand how adored he was?

“This,” he added after a while, setting cool fingers against Aziraphale’s chest where his pulse beat in time to Crowley’s own. “Very much missed this. We match, you know? When we’re sleeping.”

“I know,” Aziraphale replied, watching him fondly. It had taken years for their hearts to match, locking together like clockwork, ticking in time. It would take years - decades - centuries - more if he changed form; and Aziraphale couldn’t lose this, not for all the world.

Crowley’s fingers sought lower, and the angel immediately sucked his stomach in as Crowley gracefully folded himself before him.

“Now this,” he said, spanning the soft expanse with a wide palm. “This I think I missed the most.”

“Stop.”

Crowley waited, watched, took a breath and exhaled so Aziraphale would follow suit, would relax back into himself before he leaned in to kiss in the center of that soft, warm, belly.

“Crowley.”

“My perfect, sweet angel,” Crowley replied, casting his eyes up, keeping his lips pressed ticklish against his skin. “What could possibly have given you the idea that this needed to go?”

Aziraphale pressed a hand to his face with a groan, cheeks burning but smile undeniable.

“Don’t you dare,” Crowley continued, nuzzling against him, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale’s middle as he knelt before him. “Take away my most loved thing on an uncaffeinated whim.”

Aziraphale snorted, shaking his head, and dropped his hand to watch him; the way Crowley so genuinely adored him, the way he held him like something precious, the way he kissed him as though he was worth worshipping, lips against such imperfections as though they were actual gifts from God. He laid a gentle hand to Crowley’s hair and stroked it from his face.

“I shan’t,” he replied, resigned. “I suppose coffee would clear my mind on the matter.”

“Coffee is usually enjoyed with breakfast,” Crowley suggested, pressing his cheek to his angel’s soft belly as he looked up. Aziraphale tugged his hair, enough to have the demon wrinkle his nose in delight, in proof of mischief managed. “Whose turn is it for breakfast?”

“Mine,” the angel confirmed, watching as Crowley unfurled before him, sitting up higher on his knees and pressing his chin to Aziraphale’s sternum.

“Crêpes?” he asked innocently.

“Yes, dear,” Aziraphale sighed, unable - and entirely unwilling - to hide his smile now.

“In bed?” the demon pressed next.

“Hedonist,” Aziraphale told him fondly, tugging Crowley’s hair again until he stood, until lanky arms draped over his shoulders and familiar lips found his own.

“Certified,” Crowley agreed before kissing him again. “And you’re getting there.”

“You’re certainly doing your best on me,”

Crowley nuzzled him, entirely intimate, entirely loving, a possessive gesture that brought another sigh past Aziraphale’s lips. His own arms moved to embrace Crowley, pulling him closer to the delight of the other.

“What can I do _better_?” He purred, fingers toying with the longer strands of Aziraphale’s hair until the other hummed.

“Perhaps,” the angel offered, “I could miracle us some crêpes,”

Crowley turned a curl against his finger before letting it spring loose.

“Some coffee,” Aziraphale continued, as Crowley pressed their bodies chest to knees and let his hands slide down his angel’s back, stroking over his shoulder blades. “And mayhaps even the clean up after can be arranged.”

“Splendid.” Crowley told him, tightening his hold on his angel before effortlessly lifting him from the floor, holding him against himself. “To bed then?”

Aziraphale clung to him, eyes wide, surprised, embarrassed, worried that at any moment they would both find themselves in a heap on the floor when Crowley dropped him. But his demon held him, confident in his strength and in their compatibility, just as they were. So Aziraphale set his hands on either side of Crowley’s face and kissed him, bending his knees and crossing his ankles behind him.

“To bed, I suppose,” he replied.

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up with story ideas!](https://suntosirius.tumblr.com/post/186083841152/writing-commissions-are-open)


End file.
